


As Fragile as Your Armour

by Fangu



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Angst, F/M, Kind of emtional comfort but then again not, Post-Game(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-21
Updated: 2014-04-21
Packaged: 2018-01-20 06:55:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1501001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fangu/pseuds/Fangu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Heavied down by his Judge armour, as Ashe was by her royal gold, she wondered if Basch still remembered his given name, or if it took a mirror similar to the neatly engraved one hanging by her bed to remind him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Fragile as Your Armour

The royal court of the kingdom of Dalmasca was, as all other royal courts, a theater house. Even during the silence of its closing hours, its actors would on the move, their performance demanding the Queen of Dalmasca sit by the stage every night, watching them long into the most ungodly of hours. Come morning she would wake from an uneven sleep, staring into the neatly carved bedpost of her royal chambers, recalling a princess wielding a sword, failing to remember which had truly been the disguise: The royal heir, or the rebel leader.

She was crowned eight years ago, just short of her twentieth birthday, making her the first member of the royal house since Dalmasca was taken by the empire of Archadia three years prior. She had lost her father king and prince husband both to that war, rescued and sent into hiding by a lover that would become a traitor, later reclaiming her throne and her kingdom by a traitor that would become a lover. As the youngest of nine siblings and the only daughter, this queen was never properly prepared for her role. She had risen to the occasion by teeth grit alone, but even so, the task remained just as heavy to bear as the crown placed on her head the day cheers echoed back and forth between the old cathedral and the streets of the desert city of Rabanastre.

Her royal name was Queen Ashelia, former Crown Princess Ashelia, prior to that Princess Ashelia; Her Grace, Her Majesty, Her Royal Highness.

Only one man still took the name ‘Ashe’ on his lips.

He was the traitor that would become a lover: A captain framed for her father’s murder, later revealed to have been betrayed by his own twin. As Judge Gabranth drew his last breath, it was Basch fon Ronsenburg who died, a ghost taking on his brother’s armour and purpose both, serving as protector for the young would-be Emperor of Dalmasca’s previous occupant. Previous to these events, said captain had been her shield for months; a silent advisor when she needed room to think, her man of words when she had none to say. Basch, for she still called him by that name, had a scar running down his left brow to the bottom of his ear, a reminder of the brother passed away whose name he was now addressed by. These days, this scar was the only thing reminding Ashe the man in front of her was still Basch, and not Judge Gabranth. Heavied down by his Judge armour, as Ashe was by her royal gold, she wondered if Basch still remembered his given name, or if it took a mirror similar to the neatly engraved one hanging by her bed to remind him.

During her first year of rule, Ashe spent much time with ‘Judge Gabranth’ and the boy he now served, Larsa Ferrinas Solidor. But as politics insisted the Queen of Dalmasca and Archadia’s young Emperor-to-be were done knitting bonds, the meetings Lord Larsa could discreetly arrange for his royal ally and his trusted bodyguard were few. Over the next six years, as the numbers of hours spent between Ashe and Basch dropped, so did their masks. They no longer shared a quiet meal or a game of cards, instead spending their short time together arguing over politics they had previously agreed on, refusing to accept guidance where they used to seek each other’s advice. Where their night would end with a subtle smile and a thank you, there were instead stares from each their end of the table, Ashe barely bidding Basch good night, not regretting her cold words until the third hour of kicking her sheets.

Basch often let his gloved hand slide over the edge of the dining table, the metal on his fingers making a soft scraping noise against the wood. Once never paying attention to this habit, Ashe now hated him for it, hated it along with the fact that he never removed any part of his armour save for his helmet. Knowing her own preference, Ashe suggested once he take it off to let his skin breathe, to which he barely offered a smile. Where Ashe cursed her itching gowns, Basch would carry his metal shell so effortless. She could understand his role, but not this indifference. Vossler, her first captain lover, gave up his knightly honour for her, bargaining for her kingdom behind her back so she could have her throne and people back. Basch was so dead set on keeping his distance he wouldn’t even take her hand without wearing a metal glove.

More than before he seemed intent on keeping his helmet. _Take off your mask_ , Ashe ordered him whenever he escorted her through the hallways of her castle, _your voice sounds eerie beneath it_. Basch obeyed, for Basch always obeyed, removing Gabranth’s face to reveal a clenched jaw that for each passing day resembled his masks’ previous wearer more than his own.

Their meetings often started as an informal dinner between Lord Larsa, now a young man of nineteen, Ashe and a couple of actors from Ashe’s court, on this particular night being one of her military leaders, a Bangaa risen rapidly to the top, and her chief of staff, a Rozarrian Hume woman with excellent credentials and an excellent hearing to go. The both of them had left early to continue working on their plots, Larsa soon also taking his leave, leaving Ashe and the Judge alone by the dining table. They had shared an informal supper in one of the smaller dining rooms in Ashe’s royal palace, the one with an entire wall covered with old Galtean manuscripts given back to the palace by Larsa - brought in by Judge Gabranth on a summery day four years prior.

“You may leave us,” Queen Ashe told the servants by the wall waiting to refill their cups. “Judge Gabranth will see to my needs”.

She waited for them to leave, then turned to Basch, her cup making a loud clinking sound as she put it down. It had been emptied three times already that night. “Or so I believed he would.”

Basch lifted his eyes from the carefully engraved cup in front of him, his eyes blue and clear in the dim evening light. “I always do as Your Majesty asks,” he said coarsely, a subtle stubbornness in his voice Ashe was one of few to notice. “What have I done to displease her?”

“Addressing me as such, for once,” Ashe replied sourly, putting a pointed finger to her forehead. “I asked you to call me by my name, to which you agreed. But your memory seem to be in need of a jog these days.” She loosened the clasps to her coat, exhaling a sigh of relief as it opened, then grabbed the bottle to refill her glass. “Basch.”

By the mention of his name, his eyes flickered slightly; still not the reaction Ashe wished for.

She ordered him to drink, finishing her own glass before he had taken his third sip. As the last drop rolled down the back of her tongue, lips gently pressed into the rim of the glass, she made her resolve. She had spent far too much time looking at Basch in that armour, all pale and miserable, trapped inside the metal prison of a ghost while the years worked on his face. The wine ordered her to rise from her chair, walking unsteadily over to his, wavering by his side as Basch’s eyes seeked hers, holding what Ashe’s inebriated, roused state believed to resemble fear. Her face flushed from the wine, she let her fingers run through hair much too short to be the hair of the Basch she remembered. “Why do you still keep it this length,” she murmured, closing her eyes in an attempt to stand still. “It’s not -” she swallowed a hiccup - “it is not who you are. Basch.”

The shiver the mention of his name caused was small, but not so small she could not feel it with her fingers dug into his scalp. She moved closer to him, her light blue and silver gown pulled hard across her waist. “It’s too tight,” she breathed, lips parting as she stared down at him. “It’s too tight for me to breathe, I cannot breathe, Basch. Please. Free me from this gown, and you from that armour, so we can be something different than… this. Anything but this.”

It was too much. As Basch rose from his chair, Ashe followed him, pulling him by the shoulder to push him against the wall, his armour making a blunt thump as it hit the wood. Without hesitation, her hands worked off one of his metal gloves, the pale hand revealed shaking too much for a sword arm belonging to Basch.

“Ashe --”

“I believe we are both on the brink of going insane,” she said as she pulled off the other glove. “What are our kingdoms to do with us if our minds have drifted away?”

Basch’s eyes stayed fixed on the royally decorated window on the opposite end of the room. “Our minds are lost, if this were to become what it should not.”

“I have seen you,” Ashe whispered as her hand slipped under the waist of his armour to find the proper buckles to loosen. “Your eyes have lost their sparkle. When was the last time you slept a full night, Basch?” Another buckle fell victim to her fingers. “Company always produce good sleep. I only seek to remedy your loneliness, as I do mine.”

“Ashe -” and as her hand closed around his waist as the chestplate loosened - “ _Your Royal Highness_ -”

“No,” Ashe said, her stare stubborn, “do not call me by title, I could not bear it.” The pressure on his shoulders were lightening; sweet, sweet liberation.

“I am to advise you against this,” Basch said coarsely as his dead twin’s armour fell to the floor, his entire body singing from having another pressed up against his. For years the only touch he’d  received were handshakes, and before that, decades of nothing. “When you are on my bounds, you answer to me,” Ashe said as she led his hands to her back to untie her gown, her chest against his, a brash smile on her lips. “This here is an order.”

When his long fingers started untying the bands, Ashe had never been more roused in her life.

She could not tell if the hesitation in his touches were from years of neglectance, or from inexperience. Uncertainties aside, his intents were clear, steadily working off her clothes, Ashe’s hands eagerly assisting where needed. His mouth traced her skin, a tenderness to his touch awakening something warm and painful in her chest she had not felt for a very long time. She directed him, told him where to sit and when to lie, where to put his hands and how to move them. Basch complied, responding to all her wishes, their skin soon laid bare. He was hunting down her sweet mouth with his, pressing her down into the cold stone floor just heartbeats away from claiming her, when he cruelly pulled away.

“I could not -”

“No!” Ashe cried, propping up on her elbows, his member still aiming at her with precision. But even for his body speaking clearly, Basch would not listen, instead reaching for his clothes. For several moments, Ashe laid still as if paralyzed, staring at Basch looking for the opening in his shirt, her eyes yet to be filled with tears, for Ashe had not wept for a very long time.

“If duty is the only thing you have left, then obey the one who can order,” she finally spoke, her voice pitched too high. Basch remained unmoved, his fingers still working on the shirt. “Obey!” she cried from the bottom of her lungs, her voice as brisk and forceful as it would only be when rising at the table to silence her court.

Basch halted his movement, staring at her, naked as she lied spread out beside him, her sex demanding his attention more than anything in his life ever had. He cleared his throat, his voice still rough. “My duty to you may differ from your expectancies, that does not mean -”

“Silence!” She sat up, grabbing the shirt, trying to twist it out of his hands. “If you would act for once instead of advising me -” she leaned in to take his mouth, hand slipping down to grab the base of his still erect cock. “Take this,” she breathed as their mouths parted, “take it, I know you want it - should you not, I will personally have your head cu -”

And with that, Basch threw aside his shirt and his duty both, loving her to the best of his ability, at the present time being more than enough to please the Queen of Dalmasca squirming heavenly in his arms.

“I could hang for this,” he whispered into her neck afterwards, his fingers playing gently with hers.

“Not if I play my cards right,” Ashe said lightly, her eyes closing as she pressed her frame into the warm, tall body behind her. He would have her again that night, this time far less reluctant.

Over the next two years, they gifted each other with several similar moments - of liberation, and of peace. Every few months Ashe would be called to Archades, or Larsa invited to Rabanastre, always taking Basch with him, understanding the true intent of the summon. If Larsa was ever aware of what was going on, he chose to ignore its possible impact for the time being, for reasons Ashe could only guess. She assumed he thought himself still young enough to use his inexperience as an excuse to not knowing, should the affair ever become an issue.

As nighttime settled over the City of Rabanastre, Ashe would dismiss her servants save for one, asking the kitchen to deliver a cup of sweet cinnamon pudding to Larsa’s chambers, trusting him to see the true intent. (Larsa was also quite fond of cinnamon pudding.) Upon the request from his Lord that the Queen might be in need in company, Basch would hesitate, albeit a little less each time - when Ashe called him, he always came.

Sometimes twice.

He knew he was forsaking his vows, several of them - they did a count once, their laughter dark and couldn’t-care-less in the moonlight as their bodies laid entangled, sweat-stained and otherwise stained as well. With Basch successfully snuck into her chambers, Ashe would demonstrate her contempt for her formal gowns by greeting him naked, her smooth, perfect body rubbing up against his armour, blunt, but still accurately piercing as only Ashe could be. As the sun started to rise, Basch would sit at the end of her royal bed putting his armour back on, assembling it piece by piece from toe to head, a sting of betrayal working its way up his body as his hands worked the buckles. His mask always appeared hard to breathe in following these meetings, as if its unspoken wish was to silently strangle him.

One of Ashe’s servants walked in on them one day, staring straight at Basch’s pale behind, his undergarments tucked around his ankles as he was doing his best to please the queen on the tea table in her private library. Her clever Chief of Staff had been too busy being clever to inform the staff on the off-bounds areas for the day. The servant, a young male, was returning a stack of books, now staring straight into the eyes of his Queen as she was being steadily pounded by a half undressed Judge Magister, his armour and sword thrown aside by the feet of the table.

The servant boy froze completely, not knowing what to do or not to do, his instincts telling him to wait for orders. Ashe stared at him, her brows furrowing as Basch continued to groan into her ear. “Leave!” she finally shouted, the boy dropping the books, darting out the door.

“ _Damn_ ,” Ashe hissed, wrapping her gown around her frame as she chased after him, Basch calling her name in a way that resembled a snarl.

Ashe caught up with the boy in one of the servant staircases, a circular set of stone steps leading down to the kitchen areas. “Stop!” she shouted, the youngling freezing completely. He braced himself for physical punishment, Ashe panting as she approached him from behind, wrapping her light summer coat around her shoulders. “Hear me,” she said, not sure to make this a threat or a plea. “A Queen’s staff will always have their secrets, and a part of being a good member of staff is to be discreet - this you have been told, correct?”

The tip of the boy’s ears were burning. “Y-yes, Your Highness.”

“If you can prove your loyalty,” Ashe said, “you will be rewarded. Trust me when I say there is nothing in this for you should you share this information with anyone. Rather,” she said, her teeth clenched, “misfortune might happen to those who insist there is far more at work in this tower than the outside believes.”

“I know, Your Highness,” the boy said. “The m-mistress informed me, that I might see something one day I should not. She told me to h-hold my tongue.”

“Good,” Ashe said, tightening her coat around her shoulders. “Should she ask you for secrets, do not tell her about what you have seen today, is that clear?”

The boy nodded.

“All right. Now go.”

Back in the library, Basch sat on the table assembling his armour back on his body, fuming at the sight of Ashe as she slipped in through the small door. “A servant boy,” he growled as he strapped the large, clunky breast plate to his chest. “You were wrong to chase him. No one would ever believe his stories, now you have given him more the reason to believe what he knows is of importance.”

Ashe halted, knowing his words to be the truth. In silence, she cursed her own rashness, cursed her inability to be the player her court dearly needed. The player _Dalmasca_ needed.

“This has gone too far,” Basch said with clenched teeth, reaching for the helmet. “It is not just your honour on the line, it is also my brothers. You must stop calling for me.”

“ _I_ must stop calling for _you?_ ” Ashe’s voice appeared to have broken like fine crystal. “Maybe it is _you_ who need to stop coming for me, lusting for the queen you know will succumb to your every wish!”

“You keep believing I am the one giving the orders,” Basch said, heading for the door, halting to look at her. “Your Highness.”

When the door slammed shut behind him, her face was still flushed from arousal.

That night Ashe laid awake for hours, seeing cruel shapes in the darkness of her room, trying to understand how being so intimate with someone would end up distancing her further from his heart. She longed for Basch the weeks she did not see him, yet at the sight of him, she never truly welcomed his return.

In the late summer of the Old Valendian year 715, eight years passed since her coronation, Rabanastre celebrated their Queen’s twenty-eighth birthday for two days and two nights. The events were carefully planned, the queen’s schedule filled with meetings and ceremonies, allowing her no time for secret visits. Knowing Basch to be in the city without having the chance to let him knock some tension out of her, Ashe was left strung up as ever. The days were warm and long, her obligations lasting from sunrise to sundown, and in the middle of all this she was invited to a private meeting with her advisors.

By the time she had a bowl of cinnamon pudding sent to Larsa’s chambers, it was already the fifth day, the twenty-one year old Emperor scheduled to return to Archadia the following day. It was early afternoon, the sun having began its dip towards the horizon, the day still hot. Ashe stood silently on one of the large, roofed balconies high up on the palace’s top floors, the familiar steps of metal clad feet finally approaching up the stoned stairs behind her, the rustling of armour soon quieting.

For moments there was silence, Ashe letting the fresh Dalmascan air fill her lungs while watching the mountains in the far distance, mountains she had not visited for years. A warm wind blew in over the balcony railing, gently playing with the cape of her gown, a new silver and purple necklace clinging heavily to her chest.

“I am advised to go to Rozarria,” Ashe spoke eventually. “My court says I am overdue. That, or my throne might be passed on to a different House, cited as relieving a defiant Queen of her services, thus shaming her name.”

The quiet was gently interrupted by the sound of metal moving, then of a voice twisted by metal. “It is a risk not aligning with our plan.”

His mask. He had not removed it.

“No,” Ashe said, pulling the large necklace out from her sticky skin. “It is not. I am to rule Dalmasca for as long as I can, to keep her safe. As you are to stay with Lord Larsa to keep him from harm. That is what we agreed.”

“Aye.”

Ashe turned her head. “Will you not ask who?”

“As I see it, it matters little.”

Ashe scoffed. “I thought you cared enough to at least want to know.”

The metal frame stood quietly in the shade from the roof. “I am Judge Magister, as you are Queen. I am fulfilling my duty, as you will go on fulfilling yours."

Ashe turned rapidly towards him. “Did the sun boil your head inside that metal bucket? This,” she said, lifting her cape, her arm decorated with gold, “is not who I am. It is not all of it. You saw my true self years ago, Basch, you remember. Ashe fought with sword and teeth, even with her bare hands. You were there.”

“And so you need me to remind you of what you were.”

“Perhaps,” Ashe said, dropping the cape. “As I remember you, Basch. I remember you with those kids.”

The Judge let his hand close around his sword, his grey metal armour sparkling next to the dull stone wall. “By taking my brother’s name and armour, I restored his honour. I would have become him - I would have lived as him. Yet you refuse to let me.”

The queen bit her lip, straightening her back. “That is not fair. You could have resisted --”

“I could not,” the Judge interrupted her. “You always found a way to arrange for our meetings no matter my excuse."

"I thought those excuses were you being cunning!"

"No matter, this will come to an end. You will soon belong to another man. He will be the one to care for you in my place.”

Ashe scoffed. “I will not _belong_ to anyone, no more than I choose. And it is not just another man, he is my husband to be.” She spat her next words. “Show some respect.”

“So it will be.” The metal clad figure twisted on his heel to leave.

“I did not permit you to leave!”

The Judge halted.

“It is the only way I will ever make you stay, is it not!” Ashe called. “Must I always be the one to order you to come? You never claim me for your own - I know it is part of the games we play, but it is wearing me down, Basch.”

The sun glistened on his dark armour, his hand letting go of the sword. “I am Basch no more.”

Ashe exhaled. “I can’t breathe,” she fumed, unclasping her gold line cape, throwing it to the floor. Furiously she tore off the necklace, a present from one of the younger Al-Magrace boys, then continued her march across the floor over to Basch, teeth grit, for all her years of practice still tripping in her long gown.

But the Judge was already on his way over to the staircase. “I know this dance all too well, Your Majesty. Do not fight the resolve that is inevitable.”

The next moment he was lying in a heap on the floor, his Judge armour sizzling from the touch of Thundara. He grunted in pain as he reached for his sword. “You wouldn’t dare,” Ashe shouted, panting furiously as she recharged her magick. Slowly the Judge rose to his feet, his mask glaring emptily back at her, the metal steel grey and cold. Slowly he put his sword back in place, turning yet again to leave.

Within moments, Ashe caught up with him, grabbing his helmet with both hands, jerking so hard there was pain. “Look at me!” she yelled, throwing the helmet to the floor, the next moment feeling the warm metal of of his gauntlets pressing into her neck, her back hitting the wall hard enough to have the air knocked out of her lungs. Her feet rose to tiptoe in her fine leather sandals as she stared down on his face, his stone cold blue eyes piercing her.

“It hurts,” Ashe gasped, grabbing for his armoured arm to stop him.

“You hurt me first,” Basch growled.

“Have you become him yet?” she gasped, fighting off the hand pinning her down. “Have you become the man who butchered my father?”

His eyes flashed with clarity, then he let her go. Ashe cleared her throat as she leaned against the stone wall, Basch closing his eyes, his brows furrowing. “I’m sorry.”

Ashe smoothed her hair, her skirt. “Those are words I remember well,” she murmured.

To her surprise, Basch chuckled.

Ashe leaned down to pick up his helmet, brushing off the sand. She studied the engravings in the metal, the very finest of Archadian smithery. “I once hated you, do you remember?”

Basch opened his eyes, keeping them fixated on the horizon, the shade cast from the roof covering half of his face. “Aye.”

Ashe shifted. “Maybe only the far edges of my emotions are reserved for you.”

For the longest time, they both remained silent.

Slowly Ashe walked towards him, holding out the helmet for him. “I know your memories of him are fading, but he will always be with you.” Very gently Basch accepted the mask.

“You were my advisor,” Ashe said quietly as she watched Basch’s metal fingers run over the mask. “Who will believe in me when you are gone?

The warm wind sighed past them. “ _You_ will,” Basch said. “You must. ‘tis the only way.”

Ashe nodded, remembering his words years ago. “We are the guardians,” she said, “sacrificing our wants and wishes so our people can have theirs. Were we to leave these roles for others to play, they might not endure.”

Quietly, Basch loosened one of his metal gloves, taking it off to put a hand on her shoulder. She remembered then, the words spoken by her late husband, eleven years ago. _These roles we play. I must admit I find it... wearying._

“I will play my part,” Basch said. “I will stay Larsa’s protector. No matter the means.”

Ashe stared at the stone floor, noticing every little detail in its fine decorations, then watched them become a blur.

“And I will play mine.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I still have major room for improvement but I'm really proud (Edit May 21st: It's all right. The start has too much Tell, and the end is slightly melodramatic. Will rewrite one day) of this one. Updated slightly April 25th - mostly changing what I found to be too much of Ashe's POV.


End file.
